Freestyle
It's the phantom of the opera //
The Dracula Caligula unpopular //
Melt your ocular with rocket-thrust processors //
I dare you to touch the touch-screen monitors //
Without proper gloves //
Melt the skin off your fingers 'till they look like rounded nubs //
As retarded as Forrest Gump //
You're nothing but a two-pump chump //
Drunk punk with a puss filled prostate lump //
You think that skunk stunk? //
You should have smelled that decomposing cunt //
That sick, gruesome grunt dumped in my trunk //
I'm a hunter that's ready to discontinue the hunt //
But I'm gonna keep ripping you scum 'till the millennium's done //
You couldn't pass if you was gassed out of your ass //
I'll battle you in front of Sterling Library after class //
___ spending your tuition on blunts, you're a dunce //
You get rejected trying to join Mic-Club //
Feces hit the fan from the front //
Liquid liters of diarrhea, not mud //
No, it's beet juice not blood //
Truncate your trunk //
Decapitate your face with a gun //
Assassin with your tongue //
Remove seven-eighths of your lung //
Donate it to monks with jumpsuits, zip down in the front //
For easy access when they get crunk with the nuns //
As peaceful as Evil Knievel using a dirty heroine needle //
After a four hundred and eighty foot jump //
Perform verbal acrobatic magic with crash-proof tactics //
Stuntmen say the 'F'-word more than once //
Put you on point, ___ your funky joint //
With proof like nineteen thirty three double-eagle coins //
"Bring Tha Noize" like enemies out in public //
You know you love it //
A genie bottle covered with porcupine follicles //
Try and rub it //
Blood drips 'till the tub's flooded //
My dead enemies lay there gutted //
'Till year two thousand and forty something //
In the meantime, everybody's outside running //
'Cause the puppet-master behind the curtain is coming //
With some hydrochloric stuffed in the luggage //
A "Final Call" newspaper under his arm saying, 'Peace, my brothers' //
Resonances from my vocal tracks smothers the others //
I'll bring Sparxx to any Bubba, make him guzzle pig blubber //
Do a "Ninja Man" cover, tell you to suck your mother //
If I wanted to get at you I'd just infect your lover //
Your girl's an exceptionally good sucker //
She ain't got no tan, I'll tap that ass 'till it changes color //
Get technical with decibels that are connected to you //
The audible is too incredible to sell them to you //
I'd rather tuck you in at night and tell them to you //
I introduce you to the new words and spell them for you //
Dropping jewels with unpunctuatingly possible sexugonical chronicles //
Burn you up faster than two hundred pounds of fuel //
In helicopters doing loops out in Kabul //
Compared to me, you're a out-turn, a penniless fool //
I'll take you to school, expose you to the negative news //
Take you out for drinks, put some sedatives in your booze //
If you manage to win I'll kill you, so it's better you lose //
But I'll set it up so you win and celebrate it with you //
I'll break the truth to you at a quarter 'till five //
Look you square in the eye //
And tell you that there's nowhere for you to hide //
Triangulate your flow to wherever you rhyme //
Quint-angulate your fibers one thread at a time //
Bare this in mind, look a little deeper you'll find //
Line for line, Canibus is the Red Giant of rhymes //
Mic-Club: The Curriculum, November nineteenth //
B-Y-O-B-V: Bring your own bottle of Visine //
Yale University, community broadcast emergency //
Kublai Khan proofread this verse for me //
T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound transcribed it just out of courtesy //
Then I gave them the bird 'cause they looked like nerds to me //
MicClub dot net, where real emcees preform lyrical surgery //
With Pentium circuitry //
Canibus, Yale University //
The best way to encourage me is to keep discouraging me //
They keep trying to front on me //
They don't want none of me //
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bumblebee //
No seeds yet, so you're lucky there's only one of me //
Rip the Jacker's skulduggery on a summer's eve //
The real Hip-Hop community got love for me //
That's why I give the love back //
Mic Club the Curriculum, a thousand bars, who could touch that? //
Tags: Canibus RTJ 2000BC CTHS PLOO
